Love poems (and what have I of yours
But one you did not send for jealousy,
And all my own?)

My artifice you thought designed
    For another end;
You have your own inventions, and

Bright sunlight! And the summer is a sword
Goading our sense; the very times conspire
With us to pierce that beauty; such a youth

“The August heat invades my lady’s chamber:
Italian afternoons, madame, are long,
And life more passionate, and lust less wrong,